


Disappointment

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-13
Updated: 1999-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:13:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Choices, chances lost, and a depressed ROG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disappointment

The warning came, tingling through the alcoholic haze he had worked so hard to build up. He leaned back in the booth and stretched out. His shin banged against the single pole at the base of the table, and he rubbed against it.

MacLeod saw him and smiled a greeting. Methos slowly smiled back, and loved the way Mac was unable to hide his emotions on his face. Pleased or furious, there was no second guessing the man

The man moved to his table, and Methos just lay back and enjoyed watching him move. Especially the hips. He looked relaxed enough to be free with his movements, and if Methos hadn't been drinking he wouldn't have stared so much. Not that MacLeod would notice. He could sit on the man's chest and drool, and MacLeod would have laughed and pushed him aside.

"When did you get in?" he asked. MacLeod didn't sit right away, and Methos had to crane his neck up to see him. He had to--if he stared straight ahead he might want to give into one of his more--basic urges. MacLeod's hips were just in the wrong position.

"Last night. How long have you been here?"

Methos made a dismissive motion with his hand. Joe hadn't been in all week, he had flown into Seacouver with MacLeod, and the waitress mistook it for a request for another beer. Bright girl. He finished the beer in his hand and she took the empty back.

"Oh, you know," he said. Drowning himself didn't work--MacLeod was just as fine as was when Methos was sober. "How was Seacouver?"

"It snowed. Closed down the city, traffic was horrible. I had to get out."

"How was Seacouver?" Methos asked again.

"Kalvin's dead."

Methos smiled. He had been a nasty little immortal that had been sniffing around Paris for a while. Methos went underground while he was there, just in case. MacLeod had called him a coward, and the Scot had left after an argument. It had almost been a lover's spat...except they weren't lovers. He didn't know how welcomed he'd be, but MacLeod acted like the fight never happened. Either that or he was too drunk to pick up on the nuances of the conversation.

"Good," he said. "What are you drinking?" Methos narrowed his eyes. MacLeod shrugged off his overcoat, and the shirt he wore clung to him. It was in the middle of winter, and MacLeod's nipples stood out from the thin material. Don't stare he admonished himself, but it was too late. He imagined running a pat of butter and then sprinkling cinnamon over them before licking them clean. He shook his head. It couldn't be healthy.

"I'm not. I wanted to invite you for a late night dinner. You could continue your drunk there."

Methos stared at him. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. He knew he shouldn't have read more into that than an invitation for dinner, but his cock jumped in his jeans, and he had to stop himself from reaching down and touching himself. "That would be...nice," he said. He still felt confused, and his muddled brain wasn't helping. There was nothing to think about; MacLeod would never see him as a partner. Why couldn't he just accept that?

Because, despite his best efforts...he loved MacLeod. And that was what it came down to.

MacLeod stood up, and put his jacket back on. Methos stood up, threw down enough bills to cover the bill and followed him out. MacLeod continued talking about the roads in Seacouver, the holiday travel in the airports. Nothing about the fight, nothing about the argument. Nothing

about...them.

There was no them.

MacLeod didn't seem to mind his lack of communication skills, though. He was sick and tired of moping around from a distance, laying not-so-subtle hints...risking his neck time and time again to make sure Mac would be all right. It wasn't enough just to be with Mac any more. He wanted to *be* with him.

It was cold out. MacLeod moved next to him, protecting him from the icy wind. "Methos, are you all right?" MacLeod asked. "You look pale."

"I'm drunk, MacLeod. Come see me tomorrow, I'll be fine," he said, staring at his boots so he wouldn't have to stare into the wind. He should have done up his jacket inside the bar, but he didn't want to stop and fumble with it. He hugged the two ends together, pathetically, and shivered.

MacLeod noticed it. "Here," he said, and stopped in front of him. Methos came up short, and all but bounced off. MacLeod grabbed both ends of his zipper, and Methos suddenly wished he hadn't had such a long jacket. MacLeod's hands brushed against his groin, and he had to grip onto Mac's shoulders to keep from falling.

MacLeod laughed it off. "Have another one, Methos, you're still standing," he said, and then zipped up the coat. He touched Methos' chin for an instant once it was done, clucking, and then turned back to shoulder the wind.

It took Methos a moment longer. He could still feel MacLeod's touch. That wasn't anything more than a friendly touch, but it might have been.

MacLeod realized he wasn't keeping up, and smiled again. It was a warm, amused smile for the cold night. "Do you want me to carry you?" he asked, taking a step back.

He took a step. "No...not really," he said. The way MacLeod moved made him weak, tired...dizzy from lack of blood to the brain. It was animalistic in how proud it was. Methos loved to watch the way the shoulders worked under the silk shirts he sometimes wore. He could imagine sliding his hands up and under the silk against the back of his hands, and imagined how MacLeod's skin against his palms. It would be warm...soft and so hard at the same time. He'd work his fingertips between the muscle groups, over the ribs, around the vertebra. He wanted to pull the hair tie out with his teeth and then bury his face in it. He wanted to feel the curls against his lips, he wanted to breathe in the clean smell to it. He wanted to rub his forehead against MacLeod's forehead, and lick the salt off his skin.

He really was drunk. Too drunk to do this, he suddenly worried about not being able to do anything. He had drunk way too much, and he didn't want to ruin it. The humiliation would kill him. And MacLeod would laugh at him and he couldn't live with that.

He stopped walking again. MacLeod noticed it and turned around. "Methos, you are asking me to carry you, aren't you?"

"I can't," Methos said, rubbing his face. His stomach suddenly didn't feel all that good, and he was dizzy again. "Some other time."

MacLeod turned to look at him. The cold night air had done nothing to help him, and he could feel how pale his face was. Methos turned his face so MacLeod would stop looking at him.

"I'll take you home," Mac decided.

"I don't need your help, MacLeod," Methos snapped.

Instead of answering, MacLeod pushed him. It was light enough, but Methos stumbled anyway. "If you drew your sword right now, Methos, both of you would fall over. Come on."

Methos shook his head. MacLeod took him to his door, and stood over his shoulder while he fumbled with his keys. Drunk as he was...he felt safe with MacLeod standing over him. The man radiated heat from his body, and the cold damp air didn't seem to touch them. He finally opened the door, and MacLeod's hand gently propelled him inside.

That was it. He turned around; Mac was gone. Methos shut his door, locked it, and stripped off his jacket. It fell to the floor with a clank, and he went into his kitchen. He had drunk the last bottle of beer two days ago and hadn't restocked. Same with the whiskey. It was Official; he was in hell.

He went to bed, sobering up rapidly. Half way through the night he woke up with a hard-on. He curled up around it, and wrapped his fingers around his cock. With his free hand he gathered up his testicles, and he slowly began fucking himself. He stopped once or twice to lick the palm of his hand to make it easier against him. There was something so pitiful about it. It was a lone act of desperation, which was oddly fitting, considering he was lonely and desperate.

He got up to wipe his belly, and started pacing. He didn't feel like going back to sleep. He didn't feel like drinking...he didn't feel like anything besides being in MacLeod's arms. Methos sat down on his bed, hugging himself. He froze for an instant...and then stood. This was stupid. He knew where he should be, and this wasn't it. He got up, got dressed, and drove down to the barge.

Thin clouds covered the moon as the wind blew them across the sky. He hadn't done up his jacket again, but he didn't care. In a moment he'd be in MacLeod's bed and any amount of cold would be worth it. He ran across the gangplank and knocked on the door, even though he could feel MacLeod down below.

The light flicked on, and the door opened. "MacLeod, I--" he began, wanting to say so much. He stopped. "Amanda," he said, with finality. Amanda stood behind Mac. They both had sleeping hair, and she dressed in MacLeod's robe.

"Methos?" MacLeod asked, putting an arm around Amanda. "You're a bit late for dinner and a bit early for breakfast."

The humiliation was only slightly less than the disappointment. He tried to breathe, and eventually his lungs worked. He opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed heavily. "Uh...yeah," he managed, and went back down the gangplank.


End file.
